


Of escaped rabbits

by Eloquy



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Contains a rabbit, Crack, Fluff, Gen, Humour
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-01
Updated: 2012-07-01
Packaged: 2017-11-08 23:44:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/448872
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eloquy/pseuds/Eloquy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Call Lestrade! Tell him there is an escaped rabbit" or: The backstory behind these few cryptic words.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of escaped rabbits

**Author's Note:**

> Because this line of the Hound of the Baskerville definitely needed an explanation.  
> So there it is.
> 
> This thing, that could be called fic or not, contains a rather unhealthy amount of crackiness and plain stupidity, as well as a certain fluffiness that could be related to the rabbit. But nothing is ever so sure.  
> So continue at your own risks.
> 
> (Un-betaed. If you find something seriously wrong, please do tell me, and I will correct it after having squashed a few of my fingers with the oven door.)

Most stories begin in the same way. Everything is calm, everything is normal, and then, at a certain point, something happens and everything, really, turns to shit. In Lestrade’s case, the famous “something” usually turned out to be a text message from Sherlock. It’s just how it was. He’d say he got used to it, but they both knew it was not quite true.

He got the text at 12.14. He didn’t read it before 12.16, though, as eating an overstuffed sandwich in a rather dignified manner usually requires the use of both his hands. After putting his phone back on the desk, at 12.17, he suddenly wished he hadn’t read the text, or hadn’t eaten the sandwich, because he suddenly felt very nauseous.

Sherlock had said: “Be careful when you get to your flat, I might have encountered some setbacks while working on an experiment.” In Sherlock-speak, it either meant that there was no flat at all anymore, so to speak of, or that he could expect some baby pythons dozing happily in his bathtub. Or quite a range of other very annoying, shocking, and frankly twisted things, but Lestrade didn’t really want to use his imagination right now.

His survival instinct, however, was discreetly nudging every available part of Lestrade’s brain, in a rather desperate attempt to actually do the job he was paid for. Or there for, anyway. His concern was voiced in Lestrade’s weary answer to Sherlock: “Anything life-threatening?”

The cryptic reply that came moments afterwards –“Surely not for you. For me, absolutely.”-  did nothing to quieten that concern. He didn’t really have time to dwell on it, though, as Sally barged in his office and informed him of a murder involving a blender and a couple of teabags. Turns out, it was more a matter of self-defence than a real murder, but interrogating little old ladies all afternoon –which came with an endless repetition of “We didn’t want to kill him, poor dear, but he tried to mug us, you see? – was enough to make him forget the ominous warning.

 

The grim advertisement on the Tube – “ _We want you prepared for any eventuality. That’s why our life insurances are the best._ ” –, however, brought back the whole thing to his mind.

When he entered his flat, he stopped on the spot, scanning carefully every visible corner. Nothing was out of place, or broken, or damaged beyond recognition. The walls were still their usual light grey, and the floor didn’t look like someone had tried to dig through it. The only signs of Sherlock’s passage, really, were the few re-arranged books on the coffee table, the massive lump of dirty laundry dumped near the washing machine -he had to put a stop to that- and a rather nice sketch of the kitchen view pinned to the cupboard door.

However, it was still too soon to relax. Two rooms of his flat were still unchecked, and it could be complete hell over there. After hanging up his coat, he stepped out of his shoes without bothering to untie the laces and padded slowly towards his room. 

Nothing there. Clean, bed made, the leftover tie from the morning still hanging from the bedside table. The same went for the bathroom. No baby python, no explosives rigged to the toilet drain and even his shampoo bottle seemed untouched. Lestrade leaned against the wall and cast a suspicious glance around him.

 

His survival instinct was still not very much at ease. His guts were agreeing wholeheartedly with the survival instinct. So to try to make peace with his own body, he fished his mobile out and tried to call Sherlock. The git, of course, didn’t answer. Text it was, then.

 _I can’t see anything. Are you winding me up, or is there some sort of invisible threat I haven’t discovered yet?_ –GL

Lestrade expected a snarky reply. Or an evasive one. What he didn’t expect was for the man to call back. Which bode very badly for him.

“You didn’t find anything?”

“No, but-“

“Anything at all? It would be obvious.”

“Nothing, told you.”

“Good. You don’t have to worry, then. Everything’s fine.”

“Sherlock!”

“It’s all fine, Lestrade. Go do whatever you do on the evenings. You won’t blow up.

“But-“

“Bye, Lestrade.”

 

At a loss, he spent the next couple of minutes staring rather dumbly at the small crack in the wall in front of him, before shrugging and setting off towards the living room. His survival instinct was still very much not satisfied, but the Arsenal game was starting in 5 minutes, and a man, despite everything, has his priorities.

Which, in short, were now food, booze and telly. If one were to be rather colloquial.

But from all those three, he got none. Five minutes after having pressed the button of the remote, he realised that neither sound, nor a tell-tale flickering was coming up from the screen. That was around the same time where he realised his fridge was empty, except for a few crumbs, and that his cupboards seemed to have been ransacked by some kind of ravenous creature of hell. Beer was nowhere to be found, when he was quite certain that he had still a 6-pack this very morning.

 

In the following moments, his phone felt, for the lack of a better word, very bipolar. It first transmitted Lestrade’s charming and rather pleading voice towards the only takeaway place still open at that time, only to have to transmit back the depressing news that they were out of food. Secondly, it sent to a fellow phone, belonging to a detective, quite a substantial amount of letters forming a long string of threats, insults, and every swear word known to its owner. From what it seemed.

But then again, it was a phone, and was really not affected by human emotions. Except when its associated human was hitting every key like it was his personal nemesis. Yet, that was its life, and complaining would not change a thing.

 

Very much oblivious to his phone’s philosophical considerations, Lestrade was himself in the middle of an emotional meltdown. He was angry. He was hungry. And really, he should have expected everything turning to shit. Taking a deep breath, he decided to calm down. Be the better man. Take a step back and consider how insignificant the problem was on the big scale of things. Reflect on the fact that the universe was most certainly not hating him, not really, but merely trying to teach him more patience.

He also decided to go to sleep, because clearly, it seemed to be the better way to handle the situation right now.

 

From an outsider’s point of view, what happened in the following minutes could seem very violent. Lestrade, if he ever had to testify in court, would argue that it was an instinctive reaction more than anything else, and would put all the blame on his survival instinct. The twit had bothered him all day long, after all.

And really, by knowing Sherlock as well as he did, how was he supposed to react when, sliding contentedly under his duvet, his feet had met an unexpected ball of fur? Kicking it as hard as he could seemed to be the safest option. It could have been a bear. Wanting to eat his leg. Or a wolf. A racoon. A polecat. A beaver.

Or a rabbit. God, it was a rabbit. A tiny little ball of black fur that had just become the first flying Leporidae ever, his ears flapping proudly in the process. Of course, that was all before he hit the wall in a rather worrying cracking sound. In a matter of seconds, Lestrade followed the same trajectory –thankfully avoiding the wall- and scooped up the little miserable creature in his left hand. His right was busy with his phone.

 _There was a bloody rabbit in my bed!_ –GL

 _Ah. So there it went. Smarter than I thought, then._ –SH

 _Call Mycroft, it needs a vet._ –GL

 _Excuse me?_ –SH

 _The rabbit. It needs a vet. I kicked it, it went into the wall. I think it’s got something broken._ –GL

 _Just leave it, Lestrade. It’s a RABBIT._ –SH

The rabbit in question chose this moment to emit a pitiful little squeak, while glancing up at Lestrade with wide wet eyes that just seemed to scream “Just have me put down, this world with hard walls and pain is not worth living in anymore.”

As it had said earlier, the phone was not prone to human emotions, but he couldn’t help but feel a pang of pride and protectiveness when he sent the Inspector’s next message.

 _I won’t have that rabbit die here tonight, Sherlock Holmes. So you call Mycroft or do whatever you need, but I want a vet, here, as soon as possible. It’s your fault it’s in that state, so you deal with your mess._ –GL

 

Lestrade was not quite sure if Sherlock obeyed because he felt some kind of remorse (probably not), or because it seemed the best way to ensure his presence at any future crime scene (probably yes), but the fact is that ten minutes later, a vet was at his door, with a fully dressed and seemingly unconcerned Sherlock at his side.

The tiny rabbit was put in more capable hands, which quickly transformed the kitchen in some kind of field hospital, while Lestrade engaged in a silent staring contest with the lanky git that was sprawled carelessly in his armchair. Lanky git who deigned opening his mouth after a while.

“It escaped. While I was experimenting.”

Lestrade scoffed and straightened up a bit.

“So you couldn’t be bothered to catch it back, and let him roam my flat, eat all the electrical cables and my food?”

Sherlock averted his eyes first and mumbled something, words muffled by his scarf. He had a rather annoyed frown on his face, which meant that, for the rest of the world, the next minutes were probably going to be very entertaining.

“Excuse me?”

“I said: I tried to catch him back.”

Lestrade raised an eyebrow and tried with all his will to suppress the slight smirk tugging at his lips. To no avail. “And?”

“Well, it didn’t work, did it?”

“Defeated by a rabbit, eh?”

The pout on Sherlock’s face intensified gravely, and took a rather scathing verbal form that went along the lines of “Shut up, Lestrade.”

The hearty laugh of the older man was reduced to a stunned silence, though, when Sherlock added quietly, without looking at him “Thought you could use the company, anyway.”

 

Here, the rabbit would like to use the moment of charged silence and meaningful glances to raise his last unbroken paw, and make the audience aware of his accomplishments of the day. He feels like he has, until now, been only described as a helpless ball of fur, when, really, he is not just that. He has managed to escape Sherlock and has made him run, crawl and beg throughout Lestrade’s flat. He has mastered the art of actually switching off all the plugs before eating the cables in relative peace. He has managed to enter the fridge and the cupboards, using just his nose and his paws, before finally terrifying a tough and respectable Inspector of Scotland Yard by just lying under his duvet. He is not a helpless ball of fur; he is a badass rabbit that knows how to make his way through life. Even if it means hitting walls.

Now that he has had a whole paragraph to himself, the rabbit gives the floor back to Lestrade and Sherlock, hoping that the former one has finished hugging awkwardly the latter one, so they can all go back to some semblance of normalcy, even if it’s just to make the vet feel a bit less like he’s intruding on something. The man has saved his life, after all.

 

In the following months, and years, the rabbit was not really mentioned anymore. In public, in any case.

In the privacy of Lestrade’s flat, it answered to the name of “Sherly”, or “Rabbit”, depending on who was calling it. It had also developed some psychic skills that allowed it to guess when Sherlock was in a mood for experiments, and the subsequent actions that needed to be taken.

It never lacked food, and learnt that a telly, if you allowed it to work properly, could be quite interesting.

He also quite enjoyed the companionship. One can be a badass rabbit, but still relish in being scratched behind the ears.

It was a good life.


End file.
